


First Thing

by nishizono



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Call him a romantic, but considering they've spent the last six months having really great sex, John thinks this whole sleeping-next-to-each-other thing is a long-overdue development.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Thing

John has never liked mornings, but lately they've become his favorite part of the day. The first time he'd woken up with Sherlock draped across him, snoring against his shoulder, he'd thought it was a fluke, but it's been happening every morning since. Call him a romantic, but considering they've spent the last six months having really great sex, John thinks this whole sleeping-next-to-each-other thing is a long-overdue development.

He's lying in bed one morning, half-dozing and daydreaming about breakfast, when Sherlock stirs atop him and mumbles, “Eggs.”

John chuckles and says, “Stop that.”

“Hmm?”

“Deducing me in your sleep,” says John. Sherlock's hair is tickling his face, and he reaches up to brush it away, but he ends up carding his fingers through it instead. “Are you even awake?”

“Mmhm,” replies Sherlock.

And god, John loves him like this: soft and lazy, first thing in the morning before his brain has a chance to kick in. He loves Sherlock all the time, of course, but this... this is different. This is a side of Sherlock that only he gets to see, and he covets these moments with a jealousy he'll never admit.

Sherlock hums and rolls away, onto his back. After a long, full stretch that seems to leave him weak with contentment, he lets his arms drop onto the pillow above his head and just lies there, splayed across the sheets with his bare chest rising and falling as he breathes. He's beautiful in ways an artist could appreciate, a collection of neat lines and gorgeous disarray that makes John wish he could draw. As if sensing that John is staring at him, Sherlock opens his eyes halfway and peers at John through his lashes. “You're romanticizing me again.”

“Well, it's so easy to do,” says John in a deadpan, but they both know he's serious.

Sherlock gives him a lazy smile. “It's dangerous.”

“Everything with you is dangerous,” says John. He rolls onto his stomach and bows his head, teasing Sherlock's navel with the very tip of his nose. Sherlock is so sensitive in the mornings that even the barest of touches can be too much, so John moves slowly, and he's rewarded by the tiniest of gasps.

“I was dreaming about you,” whispers Sherlock. He slides his fingers around the back of John's neck and rubs his thumb over the uppermost knot of John's spine. “We were in Morocco. You were buying a hat.”

John laughs against Sherlock's belly. “I didn't realize Morocco was known for their hats.”

“Neither was I,” says Sherlock. He sounds distracted, and it's nice that for once, it's not because he's thinking about a case or an experiment; he's completely focused on John's touch.

“Will you accept breakfast in lieu of a hat?” asks John, then drags his tongue across Sherlock's hipbone. “Or maybe I should keep doing this?”

Sherlock's fingers tighten on the back of his neck, and that's all the answer he needs.

It's amazing, John thinks, how easy this seems-- amazing that he knows exactly where to touch, how hard to press, and how long to linger, and that it's been this way from the start. Sometimes he wonders if he's always known these things, and maybe he's just been waiting for the right person to match them up with. Not that he believes in fate. Not really.

John sucks on Sherlock's hipbone for awhile until Sherlock's breathing goes heavy and the tip of his cock is nudging John's chin. John ducks his head and lets his lips graze the shaft, then smiles when he gets a shivery moan in reply. He's hard too, has been since he woke up, but there's no rush. It's a weekend, and he doesn't have anywhere to be, and even if he did, he'd rather stay right where he is and take his time bringing Sherlock off.

“John,” whispers Sherlock, but he's not trying to start a conversation. It's like John's name is just another thing to say, like a curse or a reminder to breathe. His head is back and his throat is bared, and a shudder ripples through him when John licks the head of his cock.

And Jesus, it can't be possible for John to want Sherlock any more than he already does.

John goes slow; he spends a few minutes lapping at the tip before sucking the head into his mouth and just holding it there. Sherlock makes the most incredible sounds, soft gasps and needy growls that have John rubbing against the sheets. He has Sherlock halfway down his throat when Sherlock gasps, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” so he pulls back and chuckles. “Too much?”

“Kiss me,” replies Sherlock, panting, and it's so rare for him to make requests in bed that John immediately obliges. Sherlock kisses like he's hungry for it, like he's starved for affection and he's trying to get as much as possible so he can store it up for later. John knows that can't be true-- there are plenty of people, himself included, who would love to give Sherlock as much affection as he wants-- but the thought makes his stomach hurt anyway.

“I'd give you anything,” says John between kisses, and maybe it's stupid for him to say it, but he's sure Sherlock knows anyway. John has never been able to keep a secret from Sherlock, and lately, he's not sure why he ever tried.

“You shouldn't,” whispers Sherlock, eyes closed and fingers resting on John's cheek. He's still out of breath, still flushed, but his voice is steady when he says, almost like he's talking to himself, “I know everything there is to know about you, but I still can't figure you out.”

It's the best compliment John has ever heard. He dives back in to crush their mouths together and falls a little bit in love with the way Sherlock gives up underneath him. One hand finds its way to Sherlock's hair, and the other is grabbing at his hip. They're both so hard it's an agony not to be fucking, but John is caught up in the slide of Sherlock's tongue on his and the way Sherlock's breath catches when John bites his bottom lip.

“John, I--”

“I know,” says John. He's already got Sherlock's legs around his waist, and he sneaks a hand down between them to rub his fingers over Sherlock's hole. It's still wet from the day before, and John eases a finger inside, much to Sherlock's apparent delight. John catches his moan in a kiss and pushes his finger a little bit deeper.

It only takes a few minutes to get Sherlock stretched out, but John drags it on a little longer just to feel Sherlock clench around his knuckles. Sherlock gets impatient pretty quickly, though, and when he starts grabbing at John's shoulders, John pulls his fingers out and grabs a condom from the nightstand. A few minutes later, he's pressing his cock into Sherlock, and god, it's amazing. Every goddamn time, it's amazing. John would have thought the spark would wear off, but Sherlock is just as hot, just as tight, and just as eager as the first time.

John moves slowly, rocking into Sherlock just a little bit at a time and shivering when Sherlock moans. They've got their hands all over each other, grabbing at hair, scratching at skin, and even sucking on each other's fingers. John has always felt like he can't get enough, but it's only in these moments that he thinks Sherlock might feel the same way.

Neither of them lasts long, even with the slow-and-steady pace. John can feel Sherlock tensing underneath him, knees digging into his ribs and fingers clutching at his shoulders. He shoves a hand between their bodies and manages to rub the heel of his palm against Sherlock just once before Sherlock is coming. John strokes him through it, listens to his ragged gasps and whispered curses, and when Sherlock presses his mouth to John's ear and breathes, “you're amazing,” John comes too. He grabs Sherlock by the hips and shoves in deep, then comes with a rumbling groan, feeling helpless and shaky, and so fucking grateful it's sick.

They lay there together, panting for breath with come smeared between them. When John feels like he can move without fainting, he raises his head and catches Sherlock's mouth in a kiss, and he loves this too, when Sherlock is fucked-out and lazy, and John is the center of his attention. It's not going to last, he knows that, but he also knows this is another thing that only he's allowed to see.

“Eggs,” says Sherlock when he pulls out of the kiss to stretch. It's another one of those full-body stretches, because he can never do anything by halves, and John can't resist biting his shoulder. Sherlock gives him a half-smile and says, “We should have toast and tomatoes, too.”

“I'm shocked,” says John as he rolls away to sprawl on his back. “You're threatening to eat a full breakfast. Is everything all right? Should I check your temperature?”

“I _have_ been engaged in strenuous activity, John.”

John snorts, not because Sherlock is trying to be funny, but because it's so obvious that he _isn't_.

“Actually, I wonder if anyone has ever conclusively measured the number of calories burned per hour during sexual activity,” says Sherlock, and John can practically hear his brain picking up speed. He'll be up and out of bed in no time, throwing on clothes and mumbling something about metabolism and kilojoules, which is fine. That's just how Sherlock is, and John can't love Sherlock without loving that too.

So it's sort of a surprise, then, when Sherlock flops over and throws an arm across his waist.

John lifts an eyebrow. Sherlock is still talking, building up steam exactly the way John predicted (only now he's talking about lithium ion batteries, so John thinks he must have missed something) but he seems content to just lie there and talk instead of rushing off to work. That's new.

“...mice from the hospital?”

“What?” says John, and then, “no, probably not,” because he's already been caught once for smuggling mice out of the lab.

Sherlock heaves a sigh. “I'll have to go to the pet store, then.”

“After breakfast,” says John. “Should I go and put the kettle on?”

Sherlock is quiet for so long that John wonders if he's managed to fall back to sleep, but then he burrows a little closer and mumbles, “in a little while,” and tightens his arm around John's waist.

And John, who has never liked mornings and who rarely finds a reason to smile before noon, hides a grin in Sherlock's hair.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the very kind, incredibly understanding, and exceedingly patient [](http://jomk.livejournal.com/profile)[**jomk**](http://jomk.livejournal.com/), who bought my services in the Help Japan auctions. I hope the fluff overdose doesn't put you into a diabetic coma! Also, thank you to [](http://ships-harry.livejournal.com/profile)[**ships_harry**](http://ships-harry.livejournal.com/) for always responding to my _OMG HELP I NEED A BETA_ emails in a calm, orderly, and helpful fashion.


End file.
